Tag Archives: grocery shopping

Dances with Carts

www.melindawentzel.comShopping carts are the bane of my existence. It seems I have an uncanny knack for choosing ones that are both germ-ridden and hideously deficient in some unforeseen manner (i.e. equipped with a smarmy handle or a pathetic set of wheels that lurch and rattle—seemingly driven to move me in any direction but straight).

For whatever reason, I initially dismiss the many and varied imperfections, foolishly thinking that they won’t be terribly bothersome in the end. Moreover, the truly vexing nature of most of the rogues I choose doesn’t become readily apparent until I’ve already journeyed halfway through the produce aisle, mindlessly fingering the fruit and considering whether we need more carrots or romaine. By then I’m committed to the match made in hell, at least until I manage to shove the aforementioned misfit-of-a-cart through the checkout line or muscle it to my car where I can finally ditch it for a better life.

To add insult to injury, I often have to endure such hardships with my brood in tow—the heathens who strive to make each and every shopping excursion more memorable. And they do—whining incessantly about this or that item (the one that the mean and horrible tyrant won’t let them have), wrestling over the matter of who gets to man the cart first, showering me with pleas for sugary cereals and those gooey snack-a-ma-call-its that ought to be removed from the planet altogether.

Apparently it is not enough to be blessed with a wayward cart.

And once I make that regrettable and irrevocable decision to allow one of my miscreants to navigate the treacherous trail ahead, my fate is sealed. Someone’s ankles will indeed pay the price. Likely, mine. Despite the innumerable lectures I’ve delivered, the live demonstrations I’ve provided and the vat of instructional guidance I’ve offered on the subject, my two charges, though well intended, are physically incapable of maneuvering from Point A to Point B without smashing into someone or something. Granted, the gunked-up wheels do little to further their cause.

Not surprisingly, at some point during each supermarket tour of duty my patience wanes with the pushing-of-the-cart ludicrousness, climaxing shamefully somewhere between the toothpaste aisle and frozen foods. As I return to the helm, attempting to pilot that which refuses to be piloted, I am met with yet another challenge: that of effectively communicating the notion of walking single file. My futile commands typically go something like this: “Okay, someone is coming toward us now. Let’s walk single file.”

“Hellooooooo… the aisle isn’t WIDE enough for the three of us AND another cart to pass. Is any of that registering with you two?!”

Of course, neither child of mine responds, so engrossed are they with hanging on the sides of my cart and eyeing the shelves for more of that which is forbidden. I must then stop the cart and clumsily move them—as if they were a couple of small boulders, smiling apologetically to the patron now upon us. Aisle after aisle, I repeat this cart dance—this utter lunacy—both stunned and amazed that creatures capable of telling me anything and everything I might want to know about a Euoplocephalus dinosaur cannot grasp the concept of getting somewhere single file.

And let us not forget the times in the past when one or both daughters insisted upon RIDING INSIDE the cart. Naturally, there were people who found this slightly disturbing—especially when they detected a hint of movement somewhere beneath the rubble.

“Do you know there are children inside your cart?” they asked, alarmed by the possibility that I could have, in fact, been so clueless as to not notice a couple of stowaways.

“Yes. They’re with me, otherwise known as Dances with Carts.”

Planet Mom: It’s where I live (forever dodging those ankle-biting menaces in the grocery store).

Copyright 2009 Melinda L. Wentzel

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Filed under In the Trenches of Parentville

Picture This

Grocery lists aren’t what they used to be. Or perhaps I should say they’re inherently different than they were before the advent of the smart phone. People no longer simply jot down a comprehensive list of the sorts of things they need with regard to food, toiletries and paper goods. Instead they “tell” their phones what they need or type those necessities into the notes app as a reminder—or at least I do. Then I can conveniently add items on the go, not once having to deal with finding a fresh scrap of paper or a pen that actually writes.

Even still, our family uses a notepad that is housed within a tiny cabinet in our kitchen, a place that is practical if nothing else. It goes without saying, however, that half the battle is getting certain inhabitants to REMEMBER to add things to that list. I am no exception as I often forget to jot stuff down when we run out of it. I, of course, convince myself that I’ll easily recall the fact that I’m almost out of dental floss, but somehow it doesn’t wind up on the almighty grocery list, which means I’ll have to forego the joy of removing food particles from my teeth until one of us gets to the blasted store.

I can’t even imagine trying to explain what a struggle this is to my great-grandmother who lived in a very different time and place. She and my great-grandfather owned a grocery store in the early 1900s—a store that stocked hundreds of items that were available for order and delivery. I still have a framed original of the order form, one that has since yellowed but hangs in my kitchen in all its glory.

Yes, Ovaltine made the list of must-haves at Mrs. Ray Rose’s Store back then, as did Wheaties and Vicks VapoRub. Aprons and dresses, too.

Cheetos…not so much.

I guess it comes as no surprise that grocery delivery is still a relatively popular service these days, just not in my house. We prefer to traipse around in a store ourselves, plucking items from the shelves in hopes that we purchase the exact variety of shampoo/conditioner our teens requested. It’s no wonder we screw up from time to time though, as there are roughly 17 adjectives that describe said shampoo/conditioner—all of which must be present on the bottle we end up throwing in the cart. Heaven forbid we bring home the wrong kind. There’s always a fair amount of hell to pay, aside from dealing with a shopping cart with a rogue wheel and a parking lot full of idiots.

One way we’ve found to alleviate such incidents, however, is to turn to our dear cell phones, once again—this time employing the camera function to great benefit. Whenever someone in our family requests a grocery item with RIDICULOUS SPECIFICITY, he or she simply takes a picture of the packaging TO INCLUDE ALL NECESSARY DESCRIPTORS and then texts it to the individual planning to visit the grocery store next, which is usually my husband. For some unknown reason, he seems to draw the short straw when it comes to running errands. In that way (at least in theory), there can be no misinterpretation or confusion about what to buy.

Thus far, this system has served us well, except when it doesn’t. Perhaps more frustrating than having to search the aisles for an elusive product is discovering that its manufacturer recently decided to change the packaging, making the mission to find said product almost impossible. The only way to circumvent choosing the wrong item is to physically bring all interested parties to the store, which is often met with audible groans of disapproval. At least they can then be responsible for picking out the wrong product themselves and refrain from blaming someone else.

Planet Mom: It’s where I live, probably texting my husband in the grocery store—ad nauseam. Visit me there at www.facebook.com/NotesfromPlanetMom. Now available in bookstores: On Motherhood: Fireflies to First Dates: A Collection of Planet Mom Essays.

Copyright 2018 Melinda L. Wentzel

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Filed under Normal is Relative, Techno Tripe